


Say Something Soft and Soaked in Pain

by milkybreads (allthemilkbreads)



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Feminine Luke, Fluff and Angst, How Do I Tag, I mention Ashton once but him and Calum aren't in it, I might post another part to this if anyone wants, Luke wears skirts, M/M, Minor Violence, Synesthesia, and makeup, this is kinda short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:43:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7576132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthemilkbreads/pseuds/milkybreads
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael found his thoughts slipping away from the textures and colors and abstract swirls of the music. Unsurprising, they settled on Luke as the next topic of interest. If Michael was moss green (“A soothing green. Like home,” Luke had embellished earlier), if Michael was green then Luke was lavender. That felt right. Lavender was cool, refreshing, comforting. Something you admired at a distance, but toxic if you got too close. Lavender was the sound of crumpling paper and warm summer breezes and the taste of mint. Lavender was the sound of a far away A minor chord on the guitar, not quite full and perfect but almost there. If Michael was green, and the song playing was a muted, greyish blue, then Luke was lavender. </p><p>Or the oneshot that nobody asked for where Michael has synesthesia and Luke is the new kid who wears skirts and makeup, and they find themselves in each other. </p><p>Title is from "The Judge" by Twenty One Pilots</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say Something Soft and Soaked in Pain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thesoulsailor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesoulsailor/gifts).



> Hi! I hope you enjoy reading this admittedly very short and fast-paced fic. Please give me feedback/requests in the comments section if you enjoy. 
> 
> If you want to talk to me, my tumblr is foodmichael.tumblr.com and I'm always really happy to talk to people!
> 
> This fic was inspired by the wonderful Carly ( thesoulsailor ) and her beautiful writing.

“Michael has a very unique way of processing things.”

Synesthesia. The word that the doctor had said bounced around in Michael’s brain. It was like a parasite, slowly eating at his confidence. He knew that the strange word wasn’t a bad thing, just different. Michael never liked things that were different very much. Things that were different meant change, while Michael preferred the known aspects of life.

“We knew from the time that he was 12 that he was special,” his mother added, “He always had his own way of seeing things.” She snaked an arm around Michael’s shoulders and squeezed, just tight enough to be a warning, a cue for him to say something and to stop moping.

 _Special_. Michael hated that word.

The doctor spoke again, beaming at Michael with a predatory smile. “ Tell us Michael, do you see colored letters when you look at this paragraph?”

Michael glanced down at the paper, printed with ink, black ink, but all he could see was a rainbow of colors in his mind. _Of course he saw colors_ , Michael had thought everyone did until a few weeks ago.

The boy felt the familiar red feeling crawl up his throat, making his throat feel hoarse. The feeling was often triggered by the presence of the doctor.

The red was like nails on chalkboards, unpleasant. It was like the hottest day of summer, unenjoyable. It was red like his mother’s voice when she got tired of his antics.

It was red like anger.

Michael was red in that moment.

 

3 years later

 

Michael tucked his ear buds farther into his ears, effectively drowning himself further in the music. A sigh escaped his mouth as he continued to stare down the piece of paper in front of him. Michael _really_ hated tests. He supposed that was normal, but this was not a typical test, nor was he a typical boy. After all, who but him would get distracted by the numbers and letters, all of which were swimming in color and practically _begging_ for him to indulge himself in their rich personalities?

His gaze locked onto a number eight, with its rounded figure, and blue-green personality and motherly disposition. He bet that number eight would be done with this test by now.

A tear born from frustration made its way down his cheek, eventually landing on Michael’s sweater collar and becoming one with the fabric, the first tear of probably many to come.

The music continued to blare into his ears, becoming unpleasantly loud and grating.

Michael was entering one of his states again.

The feeling that Michael could only describe as being black and blue slid down his stomach, sloshing around and making him feel sick. As if a switch had been flicked on, a rush of emotions flooded his vulnerable, open mind. More tears slid down his face.

An hour later, the boy was sitting in the comfort of his bedroom, dried tears caking his cheeks and calm words tumbling out of mouth as he explained to his mother that he had an attack again.

At the same time, a few miles away, at Michael’s school, a tall blonde boy with a quiet personality was entering the desolate building for the first time.

 

The first time that Michael and Luke came face to face, Luke was sprawled across the floor, cropped blonde hair spread around him like a halo and flower crown misplaced.

Michael had barely stepped a foot through the doors of the building when he heard a bewildered shout and the sound of a body falling to the floor. He warily approached the source of the sound, peeking his head around a wall of lockers to assess the scene.

At first glance, Michael almost mistook Luke for a girl, what with his crumpled floral skirt and impeccable makeup and smooth legs. It was only when the older boy took in the lack of breasts, the masculine features (although hidden under the mask of makeup, they were still prominent), and the broad shoulders that Michael realized that _holy shit_ this was a boy. The most beautiful boy he’d ever laid eyes on.

It only then clicked that the newcomer was flat on his back on the dirty beige tile, groaning in pain and surrounded by a trio of menacing older male students.

It happened in slow motion, as though time was giving Michael an extra moment to choose: walk away unscathed, or risk everything. The choice should have been obvious. “Just walk away, Michael. Walk away and forget that it ever happened,” his brain pleaded. But as one of the bullies raised a foot, clothed in a heavy combat boot and aiming for a kick that could very well break Luke’s nose, Michael saw his body lunge forward. He heard his voice call out a feeble “Wait,” but it was distant, as though he was watching the scene through a television screen and he had the volume turned down.

It was too late. The heavy foot connected with Luke’s small delicate nose, and another groan of pain sounded throughout the hallway.

Michael felt an unpleasant tingling in his nose where Luke had been kicked, but it barely registered in his occupied mind. All he could see was the small spray of blood that had landed on the floor next to Luke’s face. All he could hear were the small noises of hurt. All he could feel was the pain of the boy with the pastel personality.

When Michael returned to reality, the bullies were gone, replaced by Michael, who was now standing over Luke concernedly.

“Thank you-” a hesitant voice cut through the air, “-for trying to help. What’s your name? I’m Luke. I’m new here.”

Michael looked down at the boy who was now scrambling to his feet and brushing off his skirt. He was more ethereally beautiful up close.

“I’m Michael,” the boy offered with a smile. “I like your skirt.”

Michael was met with a giggle.

“I like your hair, Michael.”

“Sorry about those guys.”

“That’s ok,” Luke reassured quickly, “They just can’t handle anything that’s different from their version of normal.” He paused to bite at his lip nervously. “You want to get out of this place with me? Go to my house and chill? I didn’t feel like going to school anyways today.”

And how could Michael resist those beautiful blue eyes?

 

They rushed through the fresh downpour to Luke’s battered old car, high on emotions and relief that they were getting out for a day. Michael had determined that not only was Luke a pastel color, he was cooler color.

Once they reached the comfort of the car, the pair was quick to speed away from the school. They pulled into an abandoned gas station soon after, deciding that the rain was obscuring their vision too much to drive safely.

“Mikey, how do you see the world?”

Michael tensed up at the nickname, the same one that Ashton used to refer to him by in a fond tone. Before he left. Just like Luke would leave. He felt the red feeling rise up in his throat again like bile, but Luke was quick to amend his words.

“Michael. Sorry. I meant Michael. How do you see things?”

Michael could only utter a single word, “Colors.”

Luke appeared to think on this for a moment. “Am I a color?” he inquired.

“Everyone is a color. I just haven’t figured yours out yet.”

Silence pressed around Michael in the car. Luke appeared lost in thought, which was slightly worrying considering he should have been focused on not swerving into the opposite lane instead of Michael’s thought process.

“You’re green, you know. Green like your eyes.” A pause. “They say the eyes are the window into the soul, and your soul is green. A soothing green. Like home. Like the color of the month May.”

Michael felt something hot and wet slip down his cheek at Luke’s words.

 

An hour later, the friends found themselves in Luke’s bedroom, music pulsing through beaten down speakers, competing with the sound of the rain. They were pressed together under a blanket, Michael carding his fingers through Luke’s soft blonde locks.

Michael found his thoughts slipping away from the textures and colors and abstract swirls of the music. Unsurprising, they settled on Luke as the next topic of interest. If Michael was moss green (“A soothing green. Like home,” Luke had embellished earlier), if Michael was green then Luke was lavender. That felt right. Lavender was cool, refreshing, comforting. Something you admired at a distance, but toxic if you got too close. Lavender was the sound of crumpling paper and warm summer breezes and the taste of mint. Lavender was the sound of a far away A minor chord on the guitar, not quite full and perfect but almost there. If Michael was green, and the song playing was a muted, greyish blue, then Luke was lavender.

 

2 months later

 

Luke reached out, gently bumping his shoulder against Michael’s, and dropping his head onto Michael’s neck, planting a kiss where his lips fell against Michael’s collarbone.

Michael let his eyes flutter closed, embracing the swirls of terra cotta red shooting up his arm from where he was brushing against Luke. The red swirled around his chest for a moment before settling in his heartbeat, every thump of the organ pumping the red into his blood, tainting it. The musty color reached his head, where it muffled his thoughts, leaving a pulse of _LukeLukeLuke_ in its place.

The red was like laughter floating through the air. It was red like Luke’s voice when it went all soft when he was talking to Michael. It was red like the lipstick his mother used to wear solely for the purpose of entertaining Michael as a young boy (red was always his favorite color.)

It was red like love.

Michael was red in that moment.


End file.
